tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76458753022882115962024-02-19T09:09:56.202-08:00Lunch with LeonardKatherine Pantazis Schroederhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702658133555971755noreply@blogger.comBlogger51125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7645875302288211596.post-92133416404787789422013-07-08T17:09:00.000-07:002013-07-08T17:09:48.362-07:00The Joys of Summer.I don’t mean to brag or anything, but the view from the windows of our high-floor corner apartment in downtown Brooklyn are probably some of the best in NYC. We don’t live in Manhattan, so we get to gaze upon it. The skyscrapers are like mountains with little red blinky lights on top, but they are all nestled in together in a palette of urban colors and textures and heights. If you connected all the blinky lights, and stuck them on a staff, it might make a song.<br />
<br />
In front of the skyline are two leafy parks (seriously, I’m not trying to brag). One of the parks, named for Walt Whitman, who also gazed upon Manhattan, sits between a federal courthouse and the Office of Emergency Management (OEM). It was here that FEMA trucks hung out during Sandy, it was from here that Bloomberg gave updates about the state of Staten Island, and the Rockaways, which were underwater, or on fire. In the parking lot there are often yellow trucks reminding us to be ready New York, get your bottled water, and cash, and dried fruit. Walt Whitman Park got renovated as part of some nifty deal when the buildings were updated. At the time, nothing was better for my young boy than watching diggers create a park outside his window.<br />
<br />
The park has tables for OEM lunchers and any law clerks allowed outside during the day. And it has a fountain. Basically, a circle of 5 or 6 jets of water shoot out from the ground and the water runs down into a grate around the perimeter, carrying leaves and water balloons and band aids along with it. If you are 4 or 5, the best thing to do is to wait for the water to go off, stand or sit directly on the spout, and wait for another kid to go turn it back on. I myself have not tried this yet. If you are younger, the best thing to do is to steal a bigger kid’s bucket and go fill it with discarded band aids. Both of these things, and all the other things that go on at the fountain, are glorious.<br />
<br />
OK, I confess, there is also a very busy street outside our window (I didn’t say the view was perfect). It’s loud in the summer, when the windows are open, and New Yorkers with double lives emerge to ride their motorcycles by our home. But now, during the day when the sprinklers are on, there is something else—sheer joy. My Stepmom once said she loved to close her eyes at a busy beach because it had a happy sound. It’s the combination of squealing and surf. So maybe here we have cars and skyscrapers instead of surf, but the beauty of New York is its ability to bring the emotion of a person into high relief.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Katherine Pantazis Schroederhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702658133555971755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7645875302288211596.post-80942294582445465702013-05-26T08:02:00.000-07:002013-05-26T08:02:36.838-07:00On (the oozing blob of) Writing, Part 2.I am untrusting and risk-averse. Part of the writing process makes me a little short of breath in a panicked way, like when you think you left your iPhone somewhere in Ikea. Or when you have that dream that you have an exam but haven’t studied (nerd alert!). I get this anxiety not just because I have to write slowly like a worm composting dirt (see Part 1), but even then, when I finally get something down (on paper? On screen?) I am finding that the best writing comes out when I have no idea where I am going when I begin to write. I sit down thinking I’m going to write some awesome essay about some joy of motherhood and end up reflecting on being the fat kid in the dance recital. This lack of control can make a prudent, planning person completely insane. It’s like guess and check (which, oddly, I am more than happy to use to figure out any math problem). It just seems so risky to go through this exercise to figure out if there is a story there and where, exactly, it is. But I guess writers are people who are willing to be frustrated on the off chance that there is something there, one day, and it grabs hold of them. If they hadn’t looked, they never would have found it. But there are also many writers who looked back there and found nothing decent, I think.<br />
<br />
Now I find myself wondering what other things in my life I might avoid because I don’t know the outcome. Not little stuff like Kimchi or Gorgonzola crackers, I mean big, terrifying stuff, like trying a new job, or taking an improv class, or quietly writing alone in my apartment. My system of not leaving things to chance has worked out pretty well for me up to now. Why change it? But then little piranhas of curiosity start attacking. What stories might be behind that curtain? And will I die a horrible death if I look back there and nothing comes out? Probably not. The worst that can happen is that I wasted a half-hour of my life having heart palpitations while trying to write nothing, think nothing and plan nothing so I can write something and be surprised.<br />
<br />
So, in case you were wondering, this is a summary of my writing life. It is an infuriating and risky slow ooze to potentially nowhere, except when it leads me to somewhere.<br />
<br />
Want some cookies?<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Katherine Pantazis Schroederhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702658133555971755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7645875302288211596.post-88638019734253987562013-05-13T16:48:00.000-07:002013-05-13T16:48:57.391-07:00On Writing, Part 1.<br />
Recently, I decided to set aside 30 minutes a day to sit in front of my computer and give myself some time to let any stewing stories come out. So on the days when I am not too tired, or forget, or decide to look for a real job, I sit down, and note the time (I try to keep myself to 30 minutes). I am discovering that if the stories and writing come out at all during that time, they come as a drip. I am not a writer with a churning mass of stories. Things seem to come to my brain in packets. Like, I get a little packet, write the words from it, then have to wait for the next packet of info to arrive before the words come out. OK, next packet please.<br />
<br />
Stop. Think.<br />
(That was the entire last packet.)<br />
<br />
I think I used to write down words right away because I was afraid I would forget them if I let them sit around and dust off completely. I am now starting to trust that I will not forget the important, brilliant things I think of. Or if I do, I will remember them. Or maybe I am just a tired mom who will not only forget the brilliant thoughts, but forget that I thought them in the first place, thus releasing myself from regret that I didn’t write them down immediately! Any of these is fine.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I sit for 25 minutes and then write for 5 when something occurs to me. The process of writing is so much not-writing. And the not-writing part of writing is so not concrete—there is no finger clacking or progress. And I dislike and distrust things that are all in my head. So I write crap when I should be doing the not-writing part of writing.<br />
<br />
But the not-writing part is not just not-writing. It is, oddly enough, not-thinking. Thinking seems to kill the things that are burbling up to the surface. So really writing involves not-writing and not-thinking, for long periods of time. It sounds so easy.<br />
<br />
Here is my new exercise: I will sit, not-write and not-think. Something will occur to me (I hope). I will not write it down right away. I will wait until it is urgent that I write it down. Perhaps then I will know it is worth writing down. Some timer will go off – “ding!”—and it will emerge as a fully-formed thought loaf.<br />
<br />
Or maybe I will just go make cookies.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Katherine Pantazis Schroederhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702658133555971755noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7645875302288211596.post-19287194328875930662013-05-10T07:20:00.000-07:002013-05-10T07:20:50.495-07:00The DAP Mystery.<br />
My son getting ready to start kindergarten has gotten me thinking about my own kindergarten experience. I find that while I have brief flashes of memories from preschool on a farm in Iowa (feeding the animals, climbing on the empty propane tank, making Thanksgiving hats as either an Indian or Pilgrim—I was an Indian, and I was pissed) I have many more solid memories of kindergarten. I have a sense of who I was in kindergarten, who I was becoming, what that period of life meant for me. And I’m hoping that perhaps now that my son is entering kindergarten, his experience will shed some light on mysteries from my own kindergarten experience. Like the mystery of “DAP.”<br />
<br />
DAP* was a unit in kindergarten, like finger painting or gluing toothpicks on construction paper. It was a “floor activity” rather than a “table activity” and an “individual activity” rather than a “group activity.” It was an individual floor activity where each child picked a basket of dumpable objects, small things like balls and bottle caps. Well, actually, the only basket I can remember was the basket full of Barbie accessories. There were lots of different baskets, but only one Barbie basket. So DAP Lesson #1: position yourself to be the girl who gets the Barbie accessories.<br />
<br />
Anyway, in DAP you picked or were assigned your basket. You found a spot on the rug not near any other kids. Then you dumped out your basket. I was pretty OK until this point. It was the next 18 minutes that mystified me. I had no idea what to do with the junk in the basket. I looked around at the other kids for ideas. Their stuff was spread out. So I spread mine out. I remember thinking that if I just had the Barbie stuff I would know what to do. Hello—imaginative play! But inexplicably there was no actual Barbie with the Barbie stuff. Just accessories. DAP Lesson #2: learn to deal with disappointment; and DAP Lesson #3: accessories do not a person make.<br />
<br />
I’m not sure if we had DAP all year, but I’m guessing we did because how could they tell if we had mastered the skills it was supposed to teach and moved us on to something else (like actually playing Barbie)? So I spent 20 minutes a day for a year dumping out baskets, moving the stuff around so it looked like I knew what I was doing, and then cleaning it all up nicely and not fighting over the Barbie purses.<br />
<br />
I went to law school. A good one, and I also practiced at a big fancy law firm. I took the New York State Bar Exam. I parent two young children, at least one of whom made it to kindergarten. I owe some of this to DAP. I have no idea what the other kids learned—probably math skills, or spatial reasoning, or architecture. What I learned was how to look like you knew what you were doing. Years later, in college, a friend asked if she could borrow my notes from a seminar we had both attended. It was boring. I told her that actually I didn’t take very many notes, and generally have very little idea what the seminar was about. She looked surprised. But you looked like you were really paying attention, she said. Aha! DAP! I learned that in DAP! (With these skills I feel I would also excel in careers in sales, clinical psychology, or politics.)<br />
<br />
I’m sure they have DAP or its equivalent at PS8. I hope my son is smart and creative enough to figure out the developmentally appropriate lessons. But if nothing else, I sort of hope he learns DAP Lesson #4: fake it and smile.<br />
<br />
*I am now informed that DAP stands for “Developmentally Appropriate Practice,” which means about as much to me as an adult as it would have as a kindergartener. Personally, I would go with "Dump and Pretend."<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Katherine Pantazis Schroederhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702658133555971755noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7645875302288211596.post-12052161010671267342013-03-31T16:39:00.000-07:002013-03-31T16:39:20.973-07:00The Katherine Index (Easter Edition)<br />
The only part of Harper’s Magazine I ever seem to get around to reading is the index. It is informative, funny, and short. I thought about what I would be like, if I were an index:<br />
<br />
Number of pastel Rolos I ate while walking from the drug store to the toy store: 9<br />
Number of times I grazed something with the stroller wheel while trying to unwrap a Rolo: 2<br />
Number of mini bunnies advertised to be in a bag of Russell Stover mini bunnies: 60<br />
Actual number: 69<br />
Average age of research assistants in bunny counting project: 2.5<br />
Margin of error: large<br />
Number of dozens of eggs dyed by our family: 2<br />
Average time spent decorating each egg when doing this with a 4-year-old boy: 11 seconds<br />
Number of hard-boiled eggs we consumed on Easter Eve: 7<br />
Karl’s pre-Easter cholesterol level: 211<br />
Number of eggs hidden in our apartment by the Easter Bunny: 10<br />
Number of eggs found in our apartment by our son: we are pretty sure 10, but it was hard to keep track<br />
Number of hours after waking that the 4-year-old ate nothing but candy: 4<br />
Approximate number of peep-themed hats we saw at the Easter Parade: 6<br />
Approximate number of peep-show-themed costumes we saw: 1<br />
Price of a pretzel in Midtown: $3<br />
Price of a pretzel in Brooklyn Heights: $2<br />
Price of a pretzel in Downtown Brooklyn: $1<br />
Number of days until Halloween: 213<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Katherine Pantazis Schroederhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702658133555971755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7645875302288211596.post-75490722284614772982013-02-23T16:07:00.001-08:002013-02-23T16:07:42.786-08:00Shimek.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc5r8EL_3AZMKZU9XyWwq9PP51Ioh5mVmP_A-jNtKbrsQtA_PplKRcuLvU4HAZti4A2xbg15ucI_CAm9UstbC4zZilkzZVullQcbqzVB1p4ukLKu1CsEzDph0_ybidLbqqGRlG1uaC8QY/s1600/shimek.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc5r8EL_3AZMKZU9XyWwq9PP51Ioh5mVmP_A-jNtKbrsQtA_PplKRcuLvU4HAZti4A2xbg15ucI_CAm9UstbC4zZilkzZVullQcbqzVB1p4ukLKu1CsEzDph0_ybidLbqqGRlG1uaC8QY/s1600/shimek.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
Bohumil Shimek, in case you haven’t heard of him, was a botanist from Iowa who collected specimens of “vascular plants, bryophytes, lichens, fungi and slime molds” from all over Iowa and meticulously cataloged them for us future generations. He loved the ecolocy of the prairie, and observed and reported the transitions of the Iowa prairie over a 50-year period. Additionally, he has two land snails named in his honor, <i>Discus shimekii</i> and <i>Helicodiscus shimeki</i>.<br />
<br />
My elementary school, in Iowa City, was named for Dr. Shimek. It had a prairie at the edge of the playground. The playground also included what I remember as huge expanses of grass, though as an adult they might appear slightly less expansive (have you ever seen a toilet in an elementary school? They are tiny!). In one corner of the grass there was an asphalt kickball field, next to which was a bed of gravel, which I suspect was meant to cushion our falls as we hung upside-down from the parallel bars. The entire playground was surrounded by woods. We were told never to go in the woods at recess, and I don’t remember anyone ever trying to.<br />
<br />
Yesterday I registered by son for Kindergarten at P.S. 8, Brooklyn, NYC. The playground does not have any prairie, woods, grass, gravel, parallel bars, or expanses. That doesn’t mean it isn’t an adequate playground. My son just needs to be somewhere he can run really fast. It will be perfect for him. But I had a startling moment where I realized my children’s lives will not be the same as mine. Of course they won’t. My son will go look at art instead of look for animal tracks. He will ride the subway to field trips. He will learn about how they built the Brooklyn Bridge, the Empire State, and the Verrazano Narrows, a suspension bridge whose towers are farther apart at the top than at the bottom because of the curvature of the earth.<br />
<br />
In my elementary school the fire department would burn the prairie every year, to encourage new growth. I think my son will learn this lesson, even though he might not see a prairie burn. And as for Bohumil, he watched his prairie shift and change, and over time was probably surprised once or twice at what he observed in the transition. Sort of like waking up one day and realizing you have drifted away from those prairies and snails, to Brooklyn, where your kids will run and play.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Katherine Pantazis Schroederhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702658133555971755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7645875302288211596.post-11921177703799536752013-02-18T17:04:00.000-08:002013-02-23T16:07:51.725-08:00iRemote.<br />
Tonight we discovered that the iPhone has an app that can change the TV channel, like a remote. We require this service, because our 1-year-old put the remote in some remote place (ha!) and she is sleeping so we can’t ask her about it. Also she can’t talk. I am tremendously thankful that my telephone offers this service. However, this got me thinking about how many other amazing problems it could solve, so here is a preliminary list of helpful things the iPhone needs to do in the future:<br />
<br />
-Detect and kill head lice<br />
-Identify the purpose of life<br />
-Keep track of how many Girl Scout Cookies I have eaten<br />
-Hand wash all the plastics that might contain BPA so I can’t put them in the dishwasher<br />
-Test dish detergent for environmental toxins<br />
-Improve bad breath<br />
-Warn me of asteroids (does it already do this? Please someone tell me.)<br />
-Similarly, warn me if a plane is about to crash anywhere near me<br />
-Warn me if the plane I am on is about to crash (ideally I would not have to pay $7 for plane WiFi for this service)<br />
-Wax eyebrows<br />
-Test cakes for doneness<br />
-Make crepes<br />
-Predict when the spot I'm standing on will be underwater due to sea level rise<br />
-Fold fitted sheets<br />
-Something about my upper arms<br />
-And, finally, find the remote<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Katherine Pantazis Schroederhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702658133555971755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7645875302288211596.post-69394053210449247272012-12-05T10:21:00.000-08:002012-12-05T10:21:07.011-08:00Seeking: Subway Strangers.Sometimes you wish the internet really did reach everyone. Sometimes it can be used to find strangers, and tell them things. Like this:<br />
<br />
You: A young guy who pulled me out of the Herald Square subway tracks when I fainted and fell in 2006. And also all the people who got together on the platform to pull me up. And then stayed with me until more official help arrived. And the woman who started screaming that I was in the tracks -- maybe it was because of you, anonymous woman, that people helped me out.<br />
<br />
Me: The young woman in a green shirt who got a really great haircut and then fainted into the subway tracks. Who then quit a job she didn't like, had a family, and found a job she did like.<br />
<br />
Thanks, You, for doing what you did. At the time I thought what you did was what anyone would do. Maybe that isn't true. I often forget and take you for granted. Sorry. Thanks. I hope all of you cheat death sometime. It's a gift. (Though I also hope you find true love and win the Powerball.)<br />
<br />
(<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7645875302288211596#editor/target=post;postID=5466530459727546433" target="_blank">Here's</a> an old essay about what happened.)<br />
<br />
Be merry (you could be dead, or in Bellevue),<br />
<br />
Katherine<br />
<br />
<span id="goog_280148065"></span><span id="goog_280148066"></span><br />Katherine Pantazis Schroederhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702658133555971755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7645875302288211596.post-54665304597275464332012-12-05T10:07:00.002-08:002012-12-05T10:07:31.753-08:00Out of Transit.<br />
Filth. I remember the filth. I noticed it just before I heard the woman screaming, “she’s in the tracks!” and thinking, thank god that’s not me, I always stand in the middle of the platform. But there is clearly more filth here, I think. I was lifted from behind and pulled up by a number of onlookers standing on the subway platform. I had fainted and fallen on the tracks; two men had jumped in to get me out. People stayed with me, gave me water and washed my hands. No train came.<br />
<br />
I had gone downtown to buy shoes. I broke my left hip and wrist. I had no idea at the time, in the ER, that my condition was so serious. I remember thinking, this has been quite stressful, maybe I will take a personal day on Monday. I spent two and a half weeks recovering at Bellevue. I couldn’t walk for a month. Until that time, I had been able-bodied, somewhat athletic, able to get around. And suddenly, due to the subway, I couldn’t get around at all. It was a mini-adventure in life, learning how to do everything with a wrist cast and wheelchair. Putting on shoes, getting in a chair, getting out of bed. <br />
<br />
I fully recovered. One of the men who jumped in to help me checked on me in the hospital. I still think about him occasionally, though the memory of the accident wears with time. Yet I hope the reminder that I shouldn’t waste my life remains forever with me. And speaking of miracles, the shoes I bought somehow made it through the entire process, from the subway, to the ambulance, through Bellevue. I wore them to a wedding last weekend, but I took a cab.<br />
<br />
2009Katherine Pantazis Schroederhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702658133555971755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7645875302288211596.post-44472379079228034142012-10-04T17:37:00.000-07:002012-10-04T17:37:33.934-07:00Apartment 16B"Isn't she so cute? Yes she is so cute!"<br />
<br />
"Ok, ok, a little less. Ooooh."<br />
<br />
"OK support her head. There you go. Good!"<br />
<br />
"OK don't pull on her head."<br />
<br />
"You were little too! You were just like her!"<br />
<br />
"No I don't think she likes pretzels."<br />
<br />
"She's so little! Look at her little toes!"<br />
<br />
"OK gentle."<br />
<br />
"Please don't put your foot on her face."<br />
<br />
"Don't you just love her?"<br />
<br />
"Please don't sit on her. Gentle."<br />
<br />
"Please don't give her pretzels."<br />
<br />
"OK not on her face."<br />
<br />
"Because she's just a baby."<br />
<br />
"Seriously, don't sit on her."<br />
<br />
"She's laughing! Isn't that so cute?"<br />
<br />
"I don't think she likes that."<br />
<br />
"Wait, don't pull on that."<br />
<br />
"Well, because she isn't a drum."<br />
<br />
"What did I say about the foot in the face?"<br />
<br />
"No, don't put any part of your body on her face."<br />
<br />
"Well is there any more poop in your butt?"<br />
<br />
"OK wash your hands."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Katherine Pantazis Schroederhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702658133555971755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7645875302288211596.post-19555920616309921062011-11-29T09:27:00.000-08:002012-01-24T06:15:03.585-08:00Yia Yia's Secrets REVEALED!My grandmother has maintained for many years that her world-famous (well, at least in northeast Pennsylvania) chocolate chip cookie recipe is simply the recipe on the back of the Nestle's morsels bag, the only difference being that she mixes the dough more thoroughly. Or, in her words, "It's like making Greek pastries. Greek pastries are not some wham-bam affair." <br /><br />So recently we made cookies together and yes, we DID in fact use the recipe on the back of the bag. I have posted Nestle's recipe here below (thanks Nestle). Please note Yia Yia's footnotes and parentheticals for best results:<br /><br />Ingredients:<br /><br />2 1/4 c. flour*<br />1 tsp. baking soda**<br />1 tsp. salt***<br />3/4 c. white sugar****<br />3/4 c. packed brown sugar^<br />2 eggs<br />1 c. butter or margarine^^<br />1 tsp. vanilla extract^^^<br />1 16 oz. bag of Nestle's morsels^*^<br /><br /><br /><br />*Actually just add it until it feels right and you can make a ball.<br />**Baking powder<br />***Make it a half teaspoon<br />****More like 1 c.<br />^Slightly less than 1 c. Dark brown sugar.<br />^^Has to be Blue Bonnet<br />^^^Vanilla flavoring<br />^*^And whatever you have left over in the cabinet.<br /><br />PREHEAT oven to 375 F. (But then once the cookies are in you put it down to 350.)<br /><br />COMBINE flour, baking soda and salt in small bowl. (According to Yia Yia, "When I was young, I sifted.") Beat butter (Blue Bonnet), granulated sugar, brown sugar and vanilla extract in large mixer bowl until creamy. (Actually, beat just the Blue Bonnet until IT is creamy FIRST. This should take 20-30 minutes AT LEAST. Then add sugars and vanilla, and beat that for awhile. To save time, throw in a load of laundry while it's beating.) Add eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. (Just keep beating. Consider roasting a leg of lamb while it's beating.) Gradually beat in flour mixture. (Or mix it in by hand, until you can make a ball.) Stir in morsels and nuts. (Make sure to coat the chocolate chips with flour first.) Drop by rounded tablespoon onto ungreased baking sheets.<br /><br />BAKE for 9 to 11 minutes or until golden brown. (12 minutes) Cool on baking sheets for 2 minutes; remove to wire racks to cool completely. <br /><br />Enjoy!Katherine Pantazis Schroederhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702658133555971755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7645875302288211596.post-5170666352594346902011-09-01T13:05:00.000-07:002011-09-02T07:54:33.828-07:00Hurriquake 2011You know you want to do it
<br />every single year,
<br />this time i think you should--
<br />the end just might be near.
<br />
<br />Mother nature's crazed;
<br />something's in the stars.
<br />September's not too early
<br />to buy those fun-size bars.Katherine Pantazis Schroederhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702658133555971755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7645875302288211596.post-17456289050603724042011-06-07T17:11:00.000-07:002011-06-07T17:27:01.155-07:00Make Lemonade.In 1985, my still-married parents decided it was a good year in which to buy a Subaru station wagon. My brother and I were around seven and four. We had outgrown my dad’s 1969 Firebird, which may mean we spilled enough ice cream cones in the back of it to make him finally break down and cry, and—even more uncharacteristically—buy a brand-new car.<br /><br />For a few weekends we hung out in car lots. We learned about features. Sun roofs and power windows were the thing (our Subaru ended up with neither). Consumer reports rated my dad best kid-car consumer 1985. It was fun. <br /><br />You are astute (and approaching middle age) if you have been thinking why, in 1985, were we not early adopters of the brilliant Dodge Caravan (wood paneling) or Plymouth Voyager (less wood paneling). I don’t know. I can only suspect that my dad felt there was an artistry to packing the back of a Subaru station wagon for a three-week camping trip with two grammar-school kids. After three to four hours it really would be stunning to behold, how the stuff he put in formed perfectly to the curved shape of the door that would nestle down on top like putting a tarp on a burial mound. We were to learn about patience, perseverance, and rear-view mirrors. Also that “I’m going to pack the car” meant to show up in the driveway around six hours later and be very, very quiet. <br /><br />The Subaru was a nice shade of light blue, which matched 1982-1986 pretty well. It was only slightly less periwinkle than the shade of our later-purchased used Toyota Tercel station wagon (later named the “butt-car” for reasons that I will now be compelled to write about at a later time).<br /><br />Before one camping trip, my mom decided to preserve the brand-new car by installing home-made seat covers on the backseat. By seat covers I really mean twin sheets. By installing I mean cutting holes in the sheets with pinking shears at approximately the places were the seat belts would come out. Inevitably, on a long car trip, or just by the end of Rochester Street, the sheets would shift completely and the seatbelt holes would be forever lost, so that upon re-entering the car we would hear four to six minutes of “Mom, I can’t find the seatbelt.” “Just reach in the hole.” “Mom, it isn’t in the hole.” “Yes it is, reach farther.” “Mom, I can’t find the seatbelt!” Etc. I suspect that at the beginning of the trip we made every effort to find the belt before taking off. Towards the end, my dad would probably just head right back out to the interstate and save that extra five to six minutes. <br /><br />Unrelated to the sheet-covers, the seatbelts (only lap belts in those days!) were the first indication that something may not be right with the car. On occasion, once you found the belt in the nether-regions of the sheets (an exercise that would sometimes reward you with a fruit roll-up or a Kavli cracker) the belt would stubbornly refuse to come out more than a foot from the seat. We tugged and pulled. “Mom, I can’t get the seat belt out!” “Mom, the seat belt is stuck!” “Mom, I can’t get the seat belt out!” Etc. At which point my dad would get out, grit his teeth and slowly feed the belt back into its lair, after which he would pull it out at varying speeds until it yielded into his hands. It was like yoga for seatbelts. My mom, viewing the belts as less of a man vs. car challenge, was less patient with fixing the belts and at one point just gave up and told me to hold on to the foot length of belt sticking out of the hole and not let go until we got home.<br /><br />I have heard that women’s hearing is more attuned to high-pitched frequencies, which is why they are more adept at hearing a baby’s cry at three in the morning (BULL). What this research failed to take into account is a man’s ability to discern the slightest squeak from the inside of a brand-new but suspiciously temperamental Japanese car. At times we would pull over in Nebraska in order to identify the origin of the squeak. Generally it was never pinpointed, but would either move or be canceled out by a different squeak emanating from a different spot, leading me to believe it was just the same phantom squeak moving from vent to vent looking for Kavli crackers. (One time, while camping, we actually did have mice in our engine, which my dad threw out by their tails. I thought that was awesome.)<br /><br />We learned to love the car. Somehow it lasted longer than my parents’ marriage. We lived with the quirks. We got old enough not to need seat covers in the back. At this point the back seat was in terrific shape (as expected), but the front seats were so worn that we bought seat covers in matching blue fake shearling (I’m guessing around 1993). We filled it up with napkins and sugars from McDonalds, including one or two stirrers for a stirring emergency. My dad ingeniously (well, not according to my stepmom) “installed” a cardboard tissue box to the dashboard with a piece of cord. It remained long after it contained tissues. It remained long enough to become a family joke. When it was finally thrown away (because my stepmom rightfully couldn’t tolerate it disintegrating before her eyes) I couldn’t put my finger on why the car didn’t feel quite right. Something was different. I was in college.<br /><br />Recently, my dad bought another car. A used car this time, because let’s face it the squeaks aren’t so bothersome in a used car. The Subaru was long gone (I told my stepmom I would support her if she drove it into the Iowa river). Around this time, my husband and I had finally decided to get rid of our beater car. We decided a convertible didn’t look very cool with a Graco SnugRide in the back. My dad generously offered us his old car, a 1997 Nissan Altima. Old but in great shape, good for the city. He had the brakes fixed and the oil changed. He put some new tires on. Re-taped the driver’s side mirror that somehow got broken off and then taped back on with some super-sticky and cheerful yellow tape. My husband, son and I drove it from Iowa to New York and read kids’ books at rest stops. We don’t drive much, so we don’t accumulate napkins or stirrers (though you might find plenty of whole grain goldfish crackers and probably an organic fruit leather). We haven’t had a tissue box spark of genius. It has a few dents and rust spots. I thought I would get that mirror fixed when I got it back home. I haven’t, and I probably won’t. I sort of like it. I’ll tell my dad to bring out some tape next time he comes.Katherine Pantazis Schroederhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702658133555971755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7645875302288211596.post-37291573811824233242011-04-19T13:56:00.000-07:002011-04-19T15:49:39.245-07:00Matzo Education Continues.My down the hall neighbor just introduced me to matzos with candy coating and chocolate frosting. Move over, Cadbury mini-eggs. Happy Passover!Katherine Pantazis Schroederhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702658133555971755noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7645875302288211596.post-14189559441542384802011-04-18T15:43:00.000-07:002011-04-19T06:26:15.105-07:00Passover Surprise!I am Greek Orthodox and from Iowa. Despite these facts, I love matzos (pronounced "matzas"). They are right up there with other joyful signs of spring, like black jellybeans, motorcycles, and people in shorts wearing winter coats. I like them with butter, or jelly. I like them right out of the box. I even like that they leave little rounded crumbs everywhere. I'm not sure when or how this love affair started. When was it that my Catholic but multi-culti mom (she was a Unitarian at one point) bought one of the six Manischewitz boxes at the grocery store? Only one store had them, at the seasonal end of an aisle, along with the three jars of gefilte fish that they pulled out of storage each year. In Iowa City, the Jews (of which there were approximately nine) did not buy their gefilte at EconoFoods. I suspect they had a Passover hook-up somewhere legit, like New York, or Chicago, or Moline. So apparently I was the only person buying those matzos, which further means that I was probably eating and enjoying last year's matzos and that is all OK. <br /><br />So, naturally, I was shocked by a few things when I moved to New York. First, it is possible to buy an industrial-sized lot of matzos at Fairway. It must have approximately 100 matzos, 5 boxes of 20 wrapped in plastic wrap. You would have to decide between this and toilet paper if you were taking the bus or booked too late and got one of the small crappy zip cars. This is heavy. This is double-bagged. This is the door-buster sale of passover. <br /><br />Furthermore, one can buy regular, low-salt, whole-wheat, spelt, egg, onion, egg & onion, thin salted, thin unsalted, thin tea, yolk-free and everything varieties. I am told they come in chocolate-covered, but I haven't seen those lately.<br /><br />My second shock was that Jews don't like matzos. It is apparently part of their cultural heritage to point out that matzos taste like cardboard. No they don't! They just look like cardboard! I understand that they are missing out on the joy of matzos because matzos are mandatory and they can't eat bagels and pizza. OK I will buy that. I get that they symbolize hardship. OK. All I'm saying is, appreciate what you have. They aren't that bad. It could be worse. You could have peeps.Katherine Pantazis Schroederhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702658133555971755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7645875302288211596.post-80737238664759176612011-03-27T08:15:00.000-07:002011-03-27T08:25:08.161-07:00Job Searching Poet.I need to find a metaphor, <br />Or simile is better,<br />To illustrate the agony<br />Of drafting cover letters.<br /><br />In other things I write,<br />I sometimes have some luck.<br />When it comes to cover letters, <br />I just can't give a darn.Katherine Pantazis Schroederhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702658133555971755noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7645875302288211596.post-69543683789996049352011-02-20T16:07:00.000-08:002011-02-20T16:25:52.560-08:00Big-boy bed.$500<br />Sleep next to it on the floor<br />Should have bought a tentKatherine Pantazis Schroederhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702658133555971755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7645875302288211596.post-13217469202390976612011-02-03T17:19:00.000-08:002011-02-03T17:22:09.113-08:00Sydney's QuestionThe city is really a fright.<br />A toddler summed up the sight;<br />My little friend said, <br />With a tilt of her head, <br />Mommy, I thought snow was white?Katherine Pantazis Schroederhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702658133555971755noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7645875302288211596.post-3746906810418350832011-02-02T11:20:00.000-08:002011-02-02T11:57:42.826-08:00Pita.This fall I suddenly decided I needed to learn how to make cheese pie (the family calls this “pita”) and spinach pie. I compiled the recipes from YiaYia, Nouna Frances, and Thespina. Or, more accurately, they were compiled for me by Thespina, on the phone with me, while YiaYia and Fran helped compile in the background. Nouna Frances said she was the first in the family to use cream cheese. YiaYia seemed unconvinced about the cream cheese, and at the time I never thought she would try it. I’m not sure if she has yet.<br /><br />So far I have made one pita and one spinach pie, with some success. I find it very relaxing to put down each phyllo layer, smooth it out. It’s cool and smooth and fragile. Go too fast and you break it. But if you do break it, no problem, just paint a little extra butter on the cracks. And also on the bubbles and the holes. But always, always remember to save a perfect layer for the top. And you should probably paint that one with extra butter too. <br /><br />Making pita transforms me into an exacting person who wears aprons and uses pastry brushes. And it closes the gap between my family “Out East” and my Iowa childhood, where the only Greek words I knew were nicknames for cookies (KBs, melos, koulouria) and “ela,” which means “get over here.” (This is also a good word to know if you ever work in a diner.)<br /><br />At Thanksgiving last year, Thespina reminisced about being the kid who brought pita to school for lunch, before it was trendy for fifth graders to eat “ethnic foods.” So I think about how Nouna Frances cracked all those eggs (maybe 10, maybe a dozen, I’m not sure where she came out on that) and while she was doing it thought about her kids, making sure they had a good lunch. And I imagine that many years ago, standing in her kitchen, that made her happy. Maybe she was tired, or bored by repeating the task, or it was late, or the kids were yelling, or my Nouno hadn’t taken out the skoupidia (I’m not sure why I know this word). But I am sure that at least once or twice (and maybe that is all you need) she stood there making pita for her kids and was completely utterly happy with making those layers for those kids, to take out into the world.<br /><br />My Nouna Frances died in 2009. She must have made hundreds of pitas. She brought them to parties, weddings and funerals. She threw showers. She made two dinners (and pita) whenever we came over. And she laughed, laughed, laughed at all the loud fun times in her kitchen. And the triumph of her life, as I see it and as I’m almost positive she saw it, was raising three children to have joy. So I strap on that apron and crack those eggs and I hope over the years I will get the recipe right too. Or at least good enough that I can impress my son’s teacher at Greek school next September.Katherine Pantazis Schroederhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702658133555971755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7645875302288211596.post-1053715991212313652011-02-02T06:09:00.000-08:002011-02-02T10:54:26.229-08:00Snowman in the Rain.OOQ:]<br /><br />OOO:]<br /><br />OOo:] <br /><br />D0o:]<br /><br />00o;]<br /><br />0oo;/<br /><br />Do;/<br /><br />oo./ <br /><br />o.\<br /><br />o.<br /><br />o<br /><br />| <br /><br />The end.Katherine Pantazis Schroederhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702658133555971755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7645875302288211596.post-75220541821806388432011-01-19T16:41:00.000-08:002011-01-19T18:45:12.298-08:00A Fraud.I am not a native here, <br />I moved from far away. <br />I noticed a "New Yorker" thing<br />Just the other day. <br /><br />People press their floor, and then<br />Real fast the "door close" one,<br />I've been here for years;<br />That's never what I've done. <br /><br />I just press my floor, <br />Then wait with silly grin.<br />After all this time,<br />I just did not fit in.<br /><br />But today I learned<br />A thing that made me perk,<br />That precious "door close" button<br />Doesn't really work.*<br /><br />*Really. Look it up.Katherine Pantazis Schroederhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702658133555971755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7645875302288211596.post-51816754171197492042011-01-18T17:03:00.000-08:002011-01-18T18:38:38.269-08:00January Showers Bring...Cold Puddles.New York, you are no match<br />for the power <br />of the puddle.<br /><br />Ice chunks float,<br />like a mini Alaska on every corner.<br /><br />Fog snips off the tops of the skyscrapers, <br />like they left on their sleep masks this morning,<br />and said, <br />No freaking way I'm getting up for this. <br /><br />The Manhattan bridge turned on her lights two hours early. <br />In surrender. <br />We give up. <br />Let us go home early.<br /><br />The Brooklyn Bridge stands firm. <br />No lights. <br />A silent sentinel, at 3 p.m.<br /><br />Hello slush, <br />you are cold precipitation not used in any sport.<br />So there.<br /><br />But, <br />little kids are drawn to puddles,<br />like laser beams or magnets.<br />And it makes me laugh.Katherine Pantazis Schroederhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702658133555971755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7645875302288211596.post-12802590794289994482011-01-17T17:38:00.000-08:002011-01-17T18:19:26.431-08:00Inuit-Yorker.I've been away it is true!<br />Something important to do.<br />I've been outside,<br />And it's with great pride,<br />That I finally finished my Igloo.Katherine Pantazis Schroederhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702658133555971755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7645875302288211596.post-86772885287751548992011-01-12T10:30:00.000-08:002011-01-12T18:37:44.779-08:00Urban Angels.To play out in the snow, <br />The roof's the place to be. <br />There's lots of fluffy drifts, <br />And very little pee.Katherine Pantazis Schroederhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702658133555971755noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7645875302288211596.post-20954168534950842552011-01-11T11:12:00.000-08:002011-01-11T18:44:59.373-08:00We (finally) (might) get iPhones!He's waited for Verizon <br />For so so many years, <br />And used his ancient Treo,<br />Although his colleagues jeer.<br /><br />Wait, is that a stylus?<br />He would hear them say.<br />He typed on keys and waited<br />For this blessed day.<br /><br />Now to us a savior's come,<br />Bearing many gifts.<br />You can't talk <span style="font-style:italic;">and</span> text, but still<br />Our lowly spirit lifts.<br /><br />My phone's end is drawing near;<br />I think I can hear taps,<br />As we move on to better things, <br />Better things with apps. <br /><br />So, goodbye old no-G phone!<br />Into the past you sail.<br />But am I really ready yet?<br />I still use hotmail!Katherine Pantazis Schroederhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702658133555971755noreply@blogger.com0